


Lady of Sorrow

by SourPuss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 19:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourPuss/pseuds/SourPuss
Summary: A short piece about Leliana's time in the Lothering Chantry before the Blight.





	Lady of Sorrow

I.

Dorothea pours the water over her. She feels herself wash away, the smells and tastes and loveliness of Orlais leave bitter kisses on her skin as they trickle to the stone floor. For a moment she ceases to exist; her heart catches and the world stills from the coldness of it all, from the water and this sad, sad country. A shaking breath rattles her chest, she does not know if she should feel clean. All she knows is Dorothea’s eyes are soft with pride, and that is enough. Heartbeats pass and the water warms against her skin, her head hangs to the floor and she thinks only of her mother, her mother with the white dress and sweet flowers. Her mother is with the Maker now, and this is where she needs to be.

II.

The first to come across her is a Templar, Yates, pausing for a moment’s reflection before breaking his fast. “Maker’s blessing, sister”, he mutters before striding down the hall to the main room. Her eyes never leave the flames. Once, while observing the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux, Lady Cecilie had told her the great brazier would only be extinguished when all four corners of the world had been purged of sin- she had never taken Cecilie to be the devout sort, religion was much more of a fashion in Orlais. 

Sleep has evaded her, and it is only here, kneeling in front of the brazier, that she feels some semblance of belonging. Her first confession had been hesitant, sheepish like a child unsure of what was expected of them, as though she was offering herself to the flames. The words pass over her lips without thought; she had sinned, she had lied and stolen, many times, so many times she had forgotten how it could be wrong. The fire burns steadily in her gaze, you can do better than that, child, its crackling voice sings to her, the Maker welcomes all who shall accept him. She sucks in her breath, and tells the fire of the first man she killed, how he choked on his own blood, the way he twitched and gurgled at her feet. A flicker, it is greedy, more, it begs, there are more. So she stays there, and remembers the bodies and the blood and the begging and feels as though she can see herself in the flames. 

On my first ever hunt, I maimed a white hart, but I refused to kill her. The fire roars, and a storm of embers rain over her. She has given herself to the maker. 

III.

Ellette comes to her in the moonlight, and her skin looks like bone against the shadows. Her eyes are a pale green, like the Ferelden fields that surround them, and her flaxen hair hangs at her waist like a cloak. There is something sorrowful to her movements, a sense of mourning that flows through her every touch, clings to her and drips from her body like water. She sits now, her cotton shift glowing white like a wedding dress, at the foot of Leliana’s bed, facing into the night. Leliana wraps her fingers around Ellette’s hair and wants to run them through it, along her spine and down her stomach; she aches to kiss her softly and slowly and tell her she is sorry that life was cruel to her. Instead, she braids it. Her work is nothing of the hairstyles of Orlais, loud and vibrant, the fruit of elven maids with delicate hands and steady eyes, but it pleases Ellette, she presumes. Her hair hangs against her back like a silk rope, nestled between betwixt her shoulder blades- she does not know if Ellette is happy in the chantry, or if Ellette has ever truly been happy. By the time Leliana has weaved the final few strands together, her chamber is bathed in a melancholy glow, soft and wavering like the girl in front of her. Ellette’s soft sigh tells her the ritual is nearly complete, tying the plait with the pale green ribbon Ellette pressed into her hand the morning before. Without comment, Ellette drifts out of the room as passively as she entered, and her delicate footsteps carry Leliana away to a dreamless sleep.

IV.

In the chantry gardens, lavender and gardenias grow strong and beautiful despite the grey climate, and it is here that she finds the Ferelden she fell in love with as a girl. In the gardens life flows from her fingertips and beneath her feet, the grass is often springy, the morning dew cushioning her steps, and the smell of rain and flowers is a sharp contrast to the perfumes of Orlais- they had always reminded her of death. 

She feels as though the spirit of her mother lives here, among the flowers and the sunbeams she feels as though she has found something she spent her whole life looking for. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she swears she sees a woman walk past the rose bush, the one part of the garden the Maker did not breathe life into; there is only ever a fleeting glimpse, a white dress that clings to her knees and a stomach that swells with the imminent burden of motherhood. The woman’s pale fingers linger on a long dead stem, pressing it against a thorn that is no less vicious in death, and soon Leliana sees blood trickle down the plant and splash into the soul, blood as red as the spectre’s plaited hair. 

She wonders if the chantry is haunted, or if she simply brings ghosts with her wherever she goes.

V.

Ellette’s bed is cold, which should have proved no surprise for Leliana, her lover’s touches feel so faint and distant it gives her chills, as though there is only a wisp of a woman left. There was no desire in her caresses, nor love in her kisses, all Leliana feels is loneliness, she feels as though she becomes nobody in her arms, save for some warmth betwixt her sheets. Beside her, Ellette sleeps restlessly, her arms twitching and tangled in the bedsheets, scowling as the ghost of a word dances over her lips. Through the thick of the night, she hears a wolf howling, a mournful aria of beauty and terror. The beast reminds her that this country is a wild place, a place of sorrow and loneliness, a place that wears misery as its sigil. 

Yet it is in this sorrowful place, amongst widows and orphans and women with pasts they’d rather forget, that she finally feels peace. She is no longer a stranger to herself, a collection of identities and deceptions, she sees herself in the young girl curled up by her mother’s side, and through her she feels the Maker. The flowers here have short, stubby petals and colours that bleed through them like ink, they are nothing of the lilies and orchids that filled the homes of Orlais, that powdered all around them in a thin veil of yellow pollen. There is a beauty in their resilience, Leniana feels as though she can feel her roots seeping into the winter-hardened earth, amongst those of the poppies and carnations that stretched along the roadsides, entwining herself with the gnarled veins of the rose bush. She feels the thorns push against her skin and wither into dust, her body is immaculate now, the Maker would not let her come to harm. 

She slips into sleep, her face inches from Ellette’s, sighing into the mattress as moonlight trickled onto her skin. Her dreams take her to a precipice, atop of which she stands and watches helplessly as all below her is engulfed in darkness. Not shadow, it simply ceases to be. Soon, the rocks she was stood upon crumble and crack until she is falling and falling and falling and there is something terrible screaming inside her skull so loudly she thinks she must be dying. When she opens her eyes sunlight blinds her, but for once she sees Ellette sleeping soundly.

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying out a different style to push myself out of my comfort zone, although I doubt I'll return to it it was definitely fun to try out! Any and all comments are always welcome! :)


End file.
